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My husband has a unique family. I can say this with authority after knowing them 20 years. They are the typical family in many ways: they fight, love, support, and spend time with each other. Nothing unique there. What didn't take long to figure out about them, though, is how important sports are.

In the way some folks may respect a Harvard grad or brag about having a doctor in the family, my in-laws respect athletic prowess above all other physical, mental, or occupational attributes. Former wallflowers in the family can quickly take center stage after a game-winning goal or making a varsity roster. After Jarret's grand slam, phone lines lit up and news reached relatives in Texas before his foot hit home plate at Centennial High School. It's like that.

You can imagine, then, the pressure of being a Martin.  You have to be good.  You have to be competitive.  You have to be the best at any sport you play.  You can't stink at bowling (just an example).

That's where I come in.

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All my life I played sports.  I played AYSO soccer before anyone in the Martin family knew the league existed (they are Los Angeles ilk).  I ran track for North High (no one in the Martin family was a sprinter). My athleticism, I am convinced, is what made me attractive to my husband. I think he looked at me and saw future generations of Olympians, or at the very least, children who were built for sports.

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So, I'm just going to say it: I stink at bowling. We are in a Sunday league that plays 26 weeks and culminates in Vegas.  When my sister-in-law asked us to join, all I heard was, "We finish in Las Vegas," and I said YES before thinking through all possible repercussions. Had I used better judgment, perhaps I would have weighed my options: Say no and preserve my reputation as an athletic stud horse, or say yes and risk weekly humiliation, watching my stock fall in the Martin family like shares in Ford Motor Co.

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I stopped having fun last week when it became apparent that sports successes aren't the only achievements telegraphed along the familial grapevine. My utter and complete failure as a bowler has evidently become weekly fodder for long distance phone conversations, made obvious when, emerging from his retirement digs in Arizona, my father-in-law saw me last weekend and asked how "the gutter ball queen" has been doing lately.

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Athleticism aside, my team loves me. Because of my shockingly low average (the lowest in the league), I have the highest handicap: I bring 80 pins to each match.  We are currently in 7th place of 18 teams.

Evidently, it pays to stink at bowling.